It has taken me a hundred or so years to finish this novel and I have to admit that I still have 80 pages left to read. I am not a slow reader; average, perhaps a bit quicker than that, but this book rests deep in the mind. Philip Roth goes farther into the human mind than most novels will ever dare to go. The entire novel is inner monologue; what is never spoken.
The storyline is this: an American family spirals out of control. The father is a high school sports hero who takes over his father's business after the war. The mother is a beauty queen who values intellect over beauty. They have 1 daughter who is raised with love and lessons and good intentions. Everything is in place; it is as it should be. Correct and just decisions were made, people drank coffee and read the Sunday paper. The father assumes everything has turned out to be a white picket fence American dream family. Until. Until the daughter grows up to be a political extremist who bombs the local drugstore and kills someone. She continues to kill in the name of politics and goes underground. Years later the father finds her in a convent of sorts living as a minimalist or as the book calls a "Jain". A religious group vowing to kill nothing including germs, plants or animals. Most people who follow it, starve to death.
The storyline is interesting, though the book is repetitive, but a much larger, important question emerges from the story. It is simply, "why"? The father cannot understand why his normal American way of parenting could create this. He cannot understand, the reader cannot either. As the reader you feel for the father and the mother and their once peaceful existence being ripped apart by a daughter who offers no apologies.
Beyond feeling for the family, what does this story mean for the reader? Can we assume things will work out if we try to make the right and moral decisions in our lives? I got married to a good person, finished my education before having children, raise my kids the best I can with the best intentions and love, but does this guarantee my children will at the very least live decent lives? Will I grow old with the man I have chosen? We all have certain expectations of how our life will be. We might disappoint ourselves when we make a bad choice, but we will always rebound back to the place that we expect will lead us to where we want to be. All of us know we cannot predict the future, but I would guess, even knowing this, that most of us are tied heavily to the future we want for ourselves. What do you see as your future? And, what happens if you are someplace you never expected to be? What if things are completely different than the expectations you once held?
I would hope to raise my kids so that they are loving people in respectable jobs. I would hope that when the kids leave for college or military or whatever trade they choose, my husband and I would travel the world. We would pay off our house and buy a boat and sail. I might even publish a book or two and my husband would retire at 55. It may sound completely idealistic, but it is the truth of how I see the future and it is quite possible it may happen. But there is also a possibility it may not. Maybe one of my children will not become a political extremist, but someone could get sick, my husband could loose his job, our house could be foreclosed on. This novel lives in that space. The space between what we see as our future and what really happens. But, what makes it even more interesting is the lack of logic or sound reason. There is no cause and effect. The mother and father do not make a choice that lead to the daughter's demise; it happened despite what they gave to her. It is a story underlining the lack of control we have and highlighting the control we think we have. It is an interesting space to write about, a foggy idea that emerged into a Pulitzer Prize winning novel.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Tender is the Night
Am I there in that French hotel, associated with the "flatness that comes over American travellers in quiet foreign places" (12)? Am I sitting there voyeuristicaly staring behind the pages of this book, following this soon to be woman and her mother? I am watching their slightly too involved or obsessive relationship; the daughter too attached, too afraid to be someone separate and real, and the mother who knows this and will change this. I am amidst the wealthy and those who claim to be, those who drop names that might associate them with the elite, but not be the elite. I am in a very different place than my living room or backyard porch or teaching a class. The world that Fitzgerald creates is one that exists, probably, but rarely to those who read this book; even the names are odd and distant from the reader's reality. We are meant to be part of the crowd looking at a centerpiece. In one sense we are in a different world in terms of time; 1925, but in another sense we are in a different fold of the universe, a crevice of an alternate mentality and daily rituals; where one goes here or there as they please, to this country or that. Where one speaks every language well enough and spare moments are everywhere. And in those spare moments, Rosemary might browse a memoir on a Russian princess while taking in the sun on a beach full of strangers who claim to know her because they have seen her in a movie. Perhaps this is the face of Hollywood, circa 1925. One wonders, where is home?
Description is everywhere. A whole chapter dedicated to a taste or the appearance of the curtains in a room. Though I believe Hemingway to be in a completely different league, the imagery is similarly intense and complex. However, the novel is slow to read. Chapters are seemingly completely different stories from the chapter before until a link is made to a known character. Entire chapters center on gossip, lying outside of importance. Moments turned into paragraphs and paragraphs of description. I get it.
Despite the many interesting aspects of the story; the imagery and exploration of small moments capitalized on, this seems to be a story about nothing. There is so much knowledge here; so many profound thoughts perhaps wasted in trivial matters. However it may be likely that the reader is supposed to feel this way, and if that is so, it is brilliant.
Several weeks have passed since I have read or written about this novel, but I just can't take this intellectual writer writing about nothing any longer. I am only on page 87, please feel free to tell me I am wrong; that the book is worth reading, that I didn't get far enough; that I quit before I reaped the benefits. I chose this one because, well it is F. Scott Fitzgerald after all! The novel is supposed to mirror his own life in many ways, particularly the wife of one of the main characters who has some sort of mental illness. Fitzgerald's own wife herself had a mental illness which became Fitzgerald's struggle as well. Interesting, yes, but the actual story bores me to pieces. I cannot take this island of nothing any longer; I am taking the next ferry out. Up to this point, the book has no relevance to anything I have ever encountered...ever.
Description is everywhere. A whole chapter dedicated to a taste or the appearance of the curtains in a room. Though I believe Hemingway to be in a completely different league, the imagery is similarly intense and complex. However, the novel is slow to read. Chapters are seemingly completely different stories from the chapter before until a link is made to a known character. Entire chapters center on gossip, lying outside of importance. Moments turned into paragraphs and paragraphs of description. I get it.
Despite the many interesting aspects of the story; the imagery and exploration of small moments capitalized on, this seems to be a story about nothing. There is so much knowledge here; so many profound thoughts perhaps wasted in trivial matters. However it may be likely that the reader is supposed to feel this way, and if that is so, it is brilliant.
Several weeks have passed since I have read or written about this novel, but I just can't take this intellectual writer writing about nothing any longer. I am only on page 87, please feel free to tell me I am wrong; that the book is worth reading, that I didn't get far enough; that I quit before I reaped the benefits. I chose this one because, well it is F. Scott Fitzgerald after all! The novel is supposed to mirror his own life in many ways, particularly the wife of one of the main characters who has some sort of mental illness. Fitzgerald's own wife herself had a mental illness which became Fitzgerald's struggle as well. Interesting, yes, but the actual story bores me to pieces. I cannot take this island of nothing any longer; I am taking the next ferry out. Up to this point, the book has no relevance to anything I have ever encountered...ever.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Snow Falling on Cedars
Snow Falling on Cedars written by David Guterson, starts out slow, like the town in which they live. You can feel the slowness; the stagnant weather, almost as if they were black and white on film. In many ways I found this novel to be the antithesis of Steinbeck's Cannery Row or Sweet Thursday. Both novels have the same underlining values; societal problems such as prejudice and justice, but told through everyday people with the simplest of lives. The major difference, I found, was that Steinbeck seems to intentionally beautify what you or I might walk right through; what we wouldn't notice in the everyday. Guterson, in stark contrast wishes to bring out the ugly, even at times grotesque, in the everyday.
The language is cold, like the snow falling against the window clinging there until it can no longer hold and falls to its end, like a man gripping, nails bleeding to a window ledge. Guterson clearly has a major talent; he brings you into a town you don't want to go. You do not wish to feel that cold, to fish on that boat, to live in the aftermath of World War II in a small fishing village off the Seattle coast, but you have no choice. For once you begin this novel you WILL be taken there against your will. You will be with the Japanese as they work in their farms and later when they are taken against their will to the internment camps and again when they return to lack of land and cold looks. You are with the San Piedro native fishermen and farmers broken to begin with and amputated when they return from the war.
This is a tale that shows no mercy, though there are no bloody scenes, this novel would not be rated R. It is read in the feeling of the words, not the words themselves. I wish to describe the town as dreadful or awful, but that's not quite it. The best word to describe the book and the characters themselves is cold, and I find the title most appropriate. I do not mean to say that this is not a good book; the goodness lies in the depression. The genius is the chill you get when there is a snowstorm which virtually follows you through the entire novel; this is no fairytale. There is little justice here.
The novel follows a court case, but I believe although this was the center of the novel, it could have been eliminated and the book would still be valid and true and important. At first glance one may say it would not have been a book without the case and all the characters surrounding it, but I would urge that the real story is outside this case. In the end, the innocent man was set free, but it is not a happy ending, Sleeping Beauty wakes only to flutter back to sleep. The man accused is a Japanese man whose father paid for many acres of strawberry land, but does not pay the very last payment before taken to the internment camp. The land is sold to someone else and the accused man is arrested for killing the current owner of his family's land. He is innocent, however. On the night of the "murder" both men are fishing late at night. The owner of the land is drifting in the sea with a dead battery when the accused man comes upon him and lends him his spare. During that night, the land owner finally agrees that he will sell his family's land back to him. Only moments later a cargo ship goes by sending a wave over the land owner’s boat, throwing him overboard and killing him. You are happy that the innocent man is free, but you are not satisfied. Still no land. Still no justice even amidst the justice. Is that possible?
Guterson does not find the beauty in life; he finds only life. He writes of truth as it really is, cold, frozen in time for this trial. Maybe this trial is a metaphor, a representation of waiting in a dreary part of history; waiting for beauty; for spring. There are few places in this town that the reader feels warmth. A fire is built by the local reporter's mother; she might belong in a Steinbeck novel. She is nothing amazing, she is an average widow, but she does not wallow. She is peaceful in the rituals, though her rituals may be seen as boring. She is a woman of God, but nobody agrees with her and she doesn't mind.
There are so many interesting questions to think about in this novel: what is justice? Forgiveness? Love? Contentment? Honor? Knowledge? It may be cold here in San Piedro, the spray of the sea stings your eyes, the electricity is out, your car may drift in the snow, the beds are not comfortable and the coffee is instant, but you will nevertheless sit in the stands as one of the jurors and you will watch and you will be captivated in the cold.
The language is cold, like the snow falling against the window clinging there until it can no longer hold and falls to its end, like a man gripping, nails bleeding to a window ledge. Guterson clearly has a major talent; he brings you into a town you don't want to go. You do not wish to feel that cold, to fish on that boat, to live in the aftermath of World War II in a small fishing village off the Seattle coast, but you have no choice. For once you begin this novel you WILL be taken there against your will. You will be with the Japanese as they work in their farms and later when they are taken against their will to the internment camps and again when they return to lack of land and cold looks. You are with the San Piedro native fishermen and farmers broken to begin with and amputated when they return from the war.
This is a tale that shows no mercy, though there are no bloody scenes, this novel would not be rated R. It is read in the feeling of the words, not the words themselves. I wish to describe the town as dreadful or awful, but that's not quite it. The best word to describe the book and the characters themselves is cold, and I find the title most appropriate. I do not mean to say that this is not a good book; the goodness lies in the depression. The genius is the chill you get when there is a snowstorm which virtually follows you through the entire novel; this is no fairytale. There is little justice here.
The novel follows a court case, but I believe although this was the center of the novel, it could have been eliminated and the book would still be valid and true and important. At first glance one may say it would not have been a book without the case and all the characters surrounding it, but I would urge that the real story is outside this case. In the end, the innocent man was set free, but it is not a happy ending, Sleeping Beauty wakes only to flutter back to sleep. The man accused is a Japanese man whose father paid for many acres of strawberry land, but does not pay the very last payment before taken to the internment camp. The land is sold to someone else and the accused man is arrested for killing the current owner of his family's land. He is innocent, however. On the night of the "murder" both men are fishing late at night. The owner of the land is drifting in the sea with a dead battery when the accused man comes upon him and lends him his spare. During that night, the land owner finally agrees that he will sell his family's land back to him. Only moments later a cargo ship goes by sending a wave over the land owner’s boat, throwing him overboard and killing him. You are happy that the innocent man is free, but you are not satisfied. Still no land. Still no justice even amidst the justice. Is that possible?
Guterson does not find the beauty in life; he finds only life. He writes of truth as it really is, cold, frozen in time for this trial. Maybe this trial is a metaphor, a representation of waiting in a dreary part of history; waiting for beauty; for spring. There are few places in this town that the reader feels warmth. A fire is built by the local reporter's mother; she might belong in a Steinbeck novel. She is nothing amazing, she is an average widow, but she does not wallow. She is peaceful in the rituals, though her rituals may be seen as boring. She is a woman of God, but nobody agrees with her and she doesn't mind.
There are so many interesting questions to think about in this novel: what is justice? Forgiveness? Love? Contentment? Honor? Knowledge? It may be cold here in San Piedro, the spray of the sea stings your eyes, the electricity is out, your car may drift in the snow, the beds are not comfortable and the coffee is instant, but you will nevertheless sit in the stands as one of the jurors and you will watch and you will be captivated in the cold.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down
This novel read like no other text I have set eyes on. It is not artistically deep, though sometimes goes there in an academic sense, it is rather history mixed with passion mixed with devastation, stirred with pure knowledge.
The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, written by Anne Fadiman will not be read by many. When browsing the shelves in a book store I would be unlikely to pick up a book about a Hmong child with epilepsy and the miscommunication between cultures that take place with American Doctors and Hmong parents. I would, however, understand my grandfather the doctor, to be interested in a book of this nature. However biased this may sound, I read this book as if it were written by a man because the knowledge was so vast and so great I simply assumed that a male doctor had written it. I am an educated woman though not nearly to the extent that Anne Fadiman is, and fully understand that woman are capable just as men are, but it was only after being halfway through with the book that I realized it was a woman.
The basic premise is this: a Hmong family immigrated from Laos to Merced, CA. One of their many children, Lia, has a seizure disorder that started when she was just an infant. To Americans, this is a disease that should be monitored and medicated; to the Hmongs, this is not a disorder, but rather a sign of prophets. The parents of Lia do not speak English and assume that the doctor's prescribed medications will make her sick, though they do choose their own dosages of the medicines at their discretion. Because of this Lia is removed from her parents and put into foster care after years of doctors attempting to regulate her meds despite the parents' efforts to be in control of them. She is eventually returned to her parents, but a particularly bad seizure hits Lia and causes so much brain damage that she will not recover. Her mother carries Lia on her back for the rest of her life, puts her in diapers and feeds her. Her parents love her more than her doctors do and Lia remains alive despite what they have told the parents, although "alive" is a term used loosely in this case.
Beyond the synopsis of the book is a larger tale. A tale of the Hmong themselves; a mountain culture in Laos trained by the American CIA to fight communism in the East. The Hmong were chosen for their ability to work hard; they are warriors who remained to themselves and lived off the Opium that they harvested, but never took themselves. It was indeed a wise choice for the American Government, what better people to fight than a culture who does not need much pay and who fights with no leave. After the war, many were allowed by the American Embassy to immigrate to the U.S. to save their lives. Many were being killed in Laos or killed escaping Laos. Since they are an agricultural people, many immigrated to Merced where they still currently live.
The story of Lia is at the forefront and the story of the Hmong people surround her, but there is a larger story here, one we all belong to. It is the story, or rather question, of how we see the world. The world view we have is not the world view of the world. I wrote that sentence on purpose, for in it's confusion lies clarity and truth; re-read it. The Hmong culture and language are so vastly different than the American way, it is the optimal culture to compare to ours if one wants to shatter any truth we call truth.
The author clearly sides with the Hmong; she yearns for the American doctor to see a person and not a disease; for doctors to learn all cultures and all biases and use that knowledge for good. I do not know what my grandfather thought about all this, but the lurking question in my mind was, how can anyone expect all that from a doctor? Can we expect that doctors will have translators on staff of every language, will they have knowledge of every culture that passes into their double doors? I have to admit that eventually Anne says this: "I started to lament the insensitivity of Western medicine. The epidemiologist looked at me sharply. 'Western medicine saves lives,' she said. Oh right, I had to keep reminding myself of that" (Fadiman, 276). I am glad to hear her say this; I was hoping she would. I would like to join her efforts to bring multiculturalism to the forefront of every problem humans have, but it seems exhausting. If no one's right, then no one's wrong and where do we stop with that? I tend to lean towards Anne's viewpoints in terms of other people and their ways of life, but I can't go quite as far as she does.
Looming in the last pages of the book are a few of the many philosophical questions she raises and are highlighted by Papa. I will bring up the most difficult, "Which is more important, the life or the soul?" (Fadiman, 277). In the book one person says the life and another says the soul; both are doctors. Because of the very nature of the book, one can never answer that. The answer would not be an answer, it would be one person's view and it would be neither right nor wrong; it would simply...be.
On the cover of the book there is a review that says, "A profoundly memorable book" and that it is. It will always haunt my memory as Lia haunts her doctors and her parents. The Hmong life is riddled with despair and displacement speaking a language that has no record, that is not written. Lia tragically and limply exists and the book does not disclose her fate. The author finishes the book at a shamanistic ritual to try and heal Lia where pigs are sacrificed and chants are spoken. Anne is both intrigued and partly distant, possibly disgusted and honored. The book is a winner of the National Book Critics Award and how could it not be? Though it is haunting, it was entirely worth writing and was written well.
The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, written by Anne Fadiman will not be read by many. When browsing the shelves in a book store I would be unlikely to pick up a book about a Hmong child with epilepsy and the miscommunication between cultures that take place with American Doctors and Hmong parents. I would, however, understand my grandfather the doctor, to be interested in a book of this nature. However biased this may sound, I read this book as if it were written by a man because the knowledge was so vast and so great I simply assumed that a male doctor had written it. I am an educated woman though not nearly to the extent that Anne Fadiman is, and fully understand that woman are capable just as men are, but it was only after being halfway through with the book that I realized it was a woman.
The basic premise is this: a Hmong family immigrated from Laos to Merced, CA. One of their many children, Lia, has a seizure disorder that started when she was just an infant. To Americans, this is a disease that should be monitored and medicated; to the Hmongs, this is not a disorder, but rather a sign of prophets. The parents of Lia do not speak English and assume that the doctor's prescribed medications will make her sick, though they do choose their own dosages of the medicines at their discretion. Because of this Lia is removed from her parents and put into foster care after years of doctors attempting to regulate her meds despite the parents' efforts to be in control of them. She is eventually returned to her parents, but a particularly bad seizure hits Lia and causes so much brain damage that she will not recover. Her mother carries Lia on her back for the rest of her life, puts her in diapers and feeds her. Her parents love her more than her doctors do and Lia remains alive despite what they have told the parents, although "alive" is a term used loosely in this case.
Beyond the synopsis of the book is a larger tale. A tale of the Hmong themselves; a mountain culture in Laos trained by the American CIA to fight communism in the East. The Hmong were chosen for their ability to work hard; they are warriors who remained to themselves and lived off the Opium that they harvested, but never took themselves. It was indeed a wise choice for the American Government, what better people to fight than a culture who does not need much pay and who fights with no leave. After the war, many were allowed by the American Embassy to immigrate to the U.S. to save their lives. Many were being killed in Laos or killed escaping Laos. Since they are an agricultural people, many immigrated to Merced where they still currently live.
The story of Lia is at the forefront and the story of the Hmong people surround her, but there is a larger story here, one we all belong to. It is the story, or rather question, of how we see the world. The world view we have is not the world view of the world. I wrote that sentence on purpose, for in it's confusion lies clarity and truth; re-read it. The Hmong culture and language are so vastly different than the American way, it is the optimal culture to compare to ours if one wants to shatter any truth we call truth.
The author clearly sides with the Hmong; she yearns for the American doctor to see a person and not a disease; for doctors to learn all cultures and all biases and use that knowledge for good. I do not know what my grandfather thought about all this, but the lurking question in my mind was, how can anyone expect all that from a doctor? Can we expect that doctors will have translators on staff of every language, will they have knowledge of every culture that passes into their double doors? I have to admit that eventually Anne says this: "I started to lament the insensitivity of Western medicine. The epidemiologist looked at me sharply. 'Western medicine saves lives,' she said. Oh right, I had to keep reminding myself of that" (Fadiman, 276). I am glad to hear her say this; I was hoping she would. I would like to join her efforts to bring multiculturalism to the forefront of every problem humans have, but it seems exhausting. If no one's right, then no one's wrong and where do we stop with that? I tend to lean towards Anne's viewpoints in terms of other people and their ways of life, but I can't go quite as far as she does.
Looming in the last pages of the book are a few of the many philosophical questions she raises and are highlighted by Papa. I will bring up the most difficult, "Which is more important, the life or the soul?" (Fadiman, 277). In the book one person says the life and another says the soul; both are doctors. Because of the very nature of the book, one can never answer that. The answer would not be an answer, it would be one person's view and it would be neither right nor wrong; it would simply...be.
On the cover of the book there is a review that says, "A profoundly memorable book" and that it is. It will always haunt my memory as Lia haunts her doctors and her parents. The Hmong life is riddled with despair and displacement speaking a language that has no record, that is not written. Lia tragically and limply exists and the book does not disclose her fate. The author finishes the book at a shamanistic ritual to try and heal Lia where pigs are sacrificed and chants are spoken. Anne is both intrigued and partly distant, possibly disgusted and honored. The book is a winner of the National Book Critics Award and how could it not be? Though it is haunting, it was entirely worth writing and was written well.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Tender at the Bone
OK, so the second book I read was called Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl. You may have noticed that I have been posting often, but it is only because I read a couple books before creating this blog. Since I am now in the middle of the 3rd book, after this post I'll be posting on my current text as I read.
So, back to the book, Tender at the Bone is a nonfiction tale of a Jewish girl and her pathologically manic mother. We can all relate to that right? Why is everything blamed on the mother! I guess it is because the mother has such a deep impact on her children. We, as mothers out there, can absolutely relate to the pressures of raising children in such a way that they are happy and not serial killers. Every move we make has ramifications, but of course we mothers don't think quite that way. If, on any given day, we were to analyze every word and every action we took with our children as to whether they may be damaged, we would be MAD!..in both senses of the word. So we go about our day, with only the major instances of bad behavior on our part as mothers and hope it doesn't ruin them too much. And don't forget the forever looming question, "Are they still young even that they won't remember?"
Similar to the movie and book Julie and Julia, this book is also surrounded by food and various recipes. Although I did not find this a book worth re-reading, I found that the recipes may be worth trying. This book will make you hungry, however it is slightly bi-polar in more than one way. First there are the recipes that the young woman picks up as a child from various aunts and nannies because her mother is a horrible and possibly deadly cook, and then there is the underlining story of the girl growing up. The stories are all intertwined, and somewhat hard to believe. The main character goes off to various countries, mostly France but also Egypt and other African countries, for boarding schools and summer job and just for a vacation away. I assume there is not any fiction in the book as it is nonfiction AND a New York Times bestseller??? But, big BUT, it seems unlikely for someone to have done all the things the author has done. Who am I to say, you might ask. Well, good question, the book does read as if her life was written verbatim, but I found it lacked a bit of depth that I always crave in a book. Her life is a mix of wild trips and experiences with various strangers and also a longing to have a mother who does not make her life a challenge. It would have been interesting to read this story from the mother's point of view or alternatively, to hear the author's story of her marriage and family now and how her upbringing helped or hindered her as an adult.
This book did not captivate me, especially because it followed Unaccustomed Earth.
So, back to the book, Tender at the Bone is a nonfiction tale of a Jewish girl and her pathologically manic mother. We can all relate to that right? Why is everything blamed on the mother! I guess it is because the mother has such a deep impact on her children. We, as mothers out there, can absolutely relate to the pressures of raising children in such a way that they are happy and not serial killers. Every move we make has ramifications, but of course we mothers don't think quite that way. If, on any given day, we were to analyze every word and every action we took with our children as to whether they may be damaged, we would be MAD!..in both senses of the word. So we go about our day, with only the major instances of bad behavior on our part as mothers and hope it doesn't ruin them too much. And don't forget the forever looming question, "Are they still young even that they won't remember?"
Similar to the movie and book Julie and Julia, this book is also surrounded by food and various recipes. Although I did not find this a book worth re-reading, I found that the recipes may be worth trying. This book will make you hungry, however it is slightly bi-polar in more than one way. First there are the recipes that the young woman picks up as a child from various aunts and nannies because her mother is a horrible and possibly deadly cook, and then there is the underlining story of the girl growing up. The stories are all intertwined, and somewhat hard to believe. The main character goes off to various countries, mostly France but also Egypt and other African countries, for boarding schools and summer job and just for a vacation away. I assume there is not any fiction in the book as it is nonfiction AND a New York Times bestseller??? But, big BUT, it seems unlikely for someone to have done all the things the author has done. Who am I to say, you might ask. Well, good question, the book does read as if her life was written verbatim, but I found it lacked a bit of depth that I always crave in a book. Her life is a mix of wild trips and experiences with various strangers and also a longing to have a mother who does not make her life a challenge. It would have been interesting to read this story from the mother's point of view or alternatively, to hear the author's story of her marriage and family now and how her upbringing helped or hindered her as an adult.
This book did not captivate me, especially because it followed Unaccustomed Earth.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Unaccustomed Earth
I chose Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri mostly because I loved the title and the cover. I know, it is revealing the simplicity within myself to say that, but it is nevertheless true. I did not, nor do I plan to, research these books before I read them. I only choose them as I somewhat randomly take one in my hand and open to it's first page.
I have already read Unaccustomed Earth before I began this blog so my details will probably be a little fuzzy and less in depth than say, for example what I may write about future books while I read them.
This novel was literally art with words. The writing had a depth that grew flowers. There is a series of about five stories and although each ended in some sort of loss of soul, the beauty rested in the way she wrote. These are tales of displacement; of a culture rarely written about in novels. So the question is, why did my grandfather choose this novel? It could be as simple as a reccomendation or a day of browsing book shops, but he clearly chose a novel with an extremely talented author; an author in the realm of Remarque, though slightly less grotesque, but poetic in a natural sense as if she were born to write.
The idea of displacement, of never fully belonging where you currently stand is interesting to me. In my own life I experience this dichotomy as I am sure, you as the reader have felt as well. My grandparents, their history and knowledge and learning, represents to me a place I belong. And yet, my parents belong somewhere else; a place where you work and marry young and have children; a place with more disfunction, but perhaps a bit more warmth?
I married at 23 and had two children by 27, in that way I am more like my mother. By 23 I had a Bachelor's of Art in Literature, a teaching credential, and a Master's of Science in Education; in that way I am more like my grandparents. I never fully feel at home without striving for more knowledge, to add to the world in some dynamic way and yet I never fully feel quite at home as an academic either. I am displaced, which is what happens when families experience trauma and members stray and marry others; they become disconnected and rebellious and the children suffer.
In some ways I feel like there may have been some displacement in my grandparent's marriage, perhaps all marriages. There is a photograph of more than 50 years ago when they were married. On my grandmother's side of the photo were her parents, Russian I believe? They look proper and kind and maybe slightly a bit too serious, too concerned. On my grandfather's side, his father is shorter, round and jolly, smoking a cigar and next to him a woman stood, fun and lively; dressed well. I believe they were from Poland? The two sides seem uterly opposite and I wonder how it felt to combine those personalities.
My grandparents are children of immigrants. I wonder how they experienced their own parents' displacement from the countries of their birth. I imagine that in a positive way both my grandparents were given knowledge about a world beyond where they currently lived, perhaps two languages as well. In this way it would make sense that even if there was not such a cultural influence in the Jewish tradition, these children may have been drawn to thinking outside of the box.
Overall, I thought this book to be one of the most well written novels I have read. She mostly writes of deep sorrow, of loosing oneself, of gaining nothing, and yet in her world of loss and fuzziness, there lies beauty in the words the author chooses to express the soul and it's search for a home. When the novel ended I wanted to immediatly go read The Namesake, her other more famous novel, but alas I cannot, for there are more books in the shelf I must read.
I have already read Unaccustomed Earth before I began this blog so my details will probably be a little fuzzy and less in depth than say, for example what I may write about future books while I read them.
This novel was literally art with words. The writing had a depth that grew flowers. There is a series of about five stories and although each ended in some sort of loss of soul, the beauty rested in the way she wrote. These are tales of displacement; of a culture rarely written about in novels. So the question is, why did my grandfather choose this novel? It could be as simple as a reccomendation or a day of browsing book shops, but he clearly chose a novel with an extremely talented author; an author in the realm of Remarque, though slightly less grotesque, but poetic in a natural sense as if she were born to write.
The idea of displacement, of never fully belonging where you currently stand is interesting to me. In my own life I experience this dichotomy as I am sure, you as the reader have felt as well. My grandparents, their history and knowledge and learning, represents to me a place I belong. And yet, my parents belong somewhere else; a place where you work and marry young and have children; a place with more disfunction, but perhaps a bit more warmth?
I married at 23 and had two children by 27, in that way I am more like my mother. By 23 I had a Bachelor's of Art in Literature, a teaching credential, and a Master's of Science in Education; in that way I am more like my grandparents. I never fully feel at home without striving for more knowledge, to add to the world in some dynamic way and yet I never fully feel quite at home as an academic either. I am displaced, which is what happens when families experience trauma and members stray and marry others; they become disconnected and rebellious and the children suffer.
In some ways I feel like there may have been some displacement in my grandparent's marriage, perhaps all marriages. There is a photograph of more than 50 years ago when they were married. On my grandmother's side of the photo were her parents, Russian I believe? They look proper and kind and maybe slightly a bit too serious, too concerned. On my grandfather's side, his father is shorter, round and jolly, smoking a cigar and next to him a woman stood, fun and lively; dressed well. I believe they were from Poland? The two sides seem uterly opposite and I wonder how it felt to combine those personalities.
My grandparents are children of immigrants. I wonder how they experienced their own parents' displacement from the countries of their birth. I imagine that in a positive way both my grandparents were given knowledge about a world beyond where they currently lived, perhaps two languages as well. In this way it would make sense that even if there was not such a cultural influence in the Jewish tradition, these children may have been drawn to thinking outside of the box.
Overall, I thought this book to be one of the most well written novels I have read. She mostly writes of deep sorrow, of loosing oneself, of gaining nothing, and yet in her world of loss and fuzziness, there lies beauty in the words the author chooses to express the soul and it's search for a home. When the novel ended I wanted to immediatly go read The Namesake, her other more famous novel, but alas I cannot, for there are more books in the shelf I must read.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
A note of explanation
Normally as I read through a book I will post several times as I come to something interesting and worth pausing for. However, since I have not started blogging, but have begun reading, I will only have one post for the first book I read, Unaccustomed Earth by Juhmpa Lahiri, and one post for the second book I read Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl. I am currently reading the third book, The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, which I hope to begin posting about in the next few days so that I will be caught up and frequently posting. Shall we begin?
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